Camping With the Winchesters
by MeandSam
Summary: Adventures with the Winchesters: What happens when 10-year-old Sam forgets his sleeping bag on a hunt?


"Hey, guys, where's _my_ sleeping bag?"

I paused, hand on the lifted trunk, and fixed my ten-year-old brother with a pointed glare.

"Back at home, dork. Where _you're_ supposed to be."

Sam missed the point.

"But what will _I_ sleep on? It's cold!"

"Duh it's cold. We're in the mountains, moro-"

"-Boys!" Dad's gruff bark cut our bickering short. "That's enough. Dean, can Sam fit in your sleeping bag with you?"

I pulled my backpack from the trunk and dropped it to the ground with a clunk.

"...Yeah."

Dad turned back to the sawed-off shotgun. Problem solved. ...For him, anyway.

The creases between Sam's eyebrows disappeared instantly; his immediate concern was met, so all would be sunshine and roses until his next delima.

I sighed.

Stupid Sam.

"What the hell were you thinking?" I asked as I flopped the limp tent canvas onto the ground, "You know you're in huge trouble for sneaking into the trunk like that… "

Creases reappeared, this time accompanied by a defiant gleam.

"I get tired of being alone all the time; and I can hunt as well as you can!"

I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, sure you can. You can't even fire a rifle."

"Yes I can."

"No, you can't."

"Yes I-"

"-Boys!"

The bark had gone up an octave. Dad was getting pissed.

 _No you can't_ I mouthed. Sam scowled.

I pointed to the tent pegs. "Pound those in."

"You're so bossy, Dean-"

"Sammy, I swear to god…" It was like the little shit didn't see that while he'd been griping about his stupid sleeping bag, I'd unloaded the Impala, set out the food, started the fire, and was now setting up the whole freakin' tent. I asked him to do one thing. ONE.

" _Tent stakes, Sammy_." I did my best to growl like Dad.

With another hateful glare (that I returned in kind), he set to his task. Of course I realized before too long that Sam had never done this before, and so his job sucked ass.

"Geez, stop Sam. Our tent's gunna freakin' blow away in the middle of the night…"

Sam paused mid swing; the tin can he'd been using to pound in the tent-stakes fell to the ground.

"How am I supposed to know how to do it?!" My younger brother protested, a look of genuine helplessness in his brown eyes, "Dad always shows you all this stuff, but I never get to hunt so how would I know?!"

I recognized the truth in what he said; I also recognized that this was the moment at which I was supposed to drop to my knees beside him, tell him it was okay, and then show him how to do it right.

Instead, I snapped.

"Well, if you'd just stayed home, we wouldn't _have_ this problem and Dad and I could just get on with the hunt."

I crouched beside him with a 'huff' and nudged him out of the way.

"Go sit in the car or something."

I didn't have look at my brother to know I'd crushed him. Silently, he rose and retreated to the Impala.

I felt bad.

Sure, I had reason to be angry; because of my stow-away brother, I now had to babysit instead of help Dad hunt. But no amount of justification on my part could compete with Sam's expression of dejection.

The poor kid was lonely.

Night fell fast.

Sam finally emerged from the Impala to mope silently beside the fire. I made a lame attempt to engage him in conversation, but he seemed content to stew in his own misery.

Dad ignored him.

"Dean, watch Sam. I'm going out to bait some traps," he announced after a cheerless meal of ramen noodles, "Keep the phone close."

I rose after him. "But Dad, I thought you needed my help to-"

"-Well now you have to watch Sam," Dad interrupted gruffly, shrugging into his beaten leather jacket and shouldering the shotgun.

Sam seemed to shrink a little smaller beneath our father's glare of disapproval.

I'd received that same glower numerous times in the past, and I cringed on Sam's behalf.

Dad disappeared into the dark.

"C'mon, Sam. Time for bed." I pushed some dirt over the fire with my boot. It sputtered and died with a trail of smoke.

Sam nodded. "Okay."

We brushed our teeth in silence; (we had to share my toothbrush).

The tent zipper was loud in the soundless dark, and as we changed into our pajamas (of course juvenile Sam had remembered _those_ ) I tried to make amends.

"Hey, Sammy, I'm sorry about the tent-peg thing…"

"S'okay. You were right," he murmured, "I can't do anything."

"Aww, c'mon," I argued, feeling around in the dark for my sleeping bag before having the genius idea to use a flashlight, "Yeah you can, you're good at research and stuff-"

"-But you and Dad don't want me here."

The beam of the flashlight illuminated his face, revealing how truly close to tears my little brother was. I pretended I didn't see.

"Don't sweat it, Sam. Dad's not that mad..."

I knew my concessions fell on deaf ears. Words weren't enough for Sam; he'd experienced enough empty promises to have developed a jaded attitude by age ten.

I unrolled my sleeping bag.

"C'mon, get in."

We didn't really fit; the zipper wouldn't close all the way so I had to pull the two sides together to trap our body heat inside. Sam's mint-and-ramen breath tickled my ear.

"I'm sorry you have to share your sleeping bag," Sam whispered.

Twisting around in the confined space, I wrapped my arms around him and ignored the cold seeping into my back through the open side of the sleeping bag.

"I'm not."

And that was good enough for Sam.

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